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Ship of Remorse, A Unique Lesbian Novel by Chris Bellows

A bored farm girl, Alexi, heads for NYC where she soon finds herself pregnant. Responding to an ad offering medical assistance for wayward girls, Alexi becomes a passenger aboard the ship of Dr. Helga, a notorious lesbian gynecologist. Yes, Alexi receives ‘care’, but she’s forced to perform the most humiliating of acts for the entertainment of Dr. Helga’s libertine passengers. Once released, she seeks employment at a swanky strip club but the manager decides that her ability to lactate and a complete lack of self-respect are suited for seedy peep shows. Later, she takes a position as a ‘wet nurse’ for an ailing wealthy octogenarian, and finds herself under complete feminine domination.

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Excerpt

“Remove all your clothing, please. Place everything in this box. When I come back I expect to see you sitting in the chair facing the desk, back straight, thighs spread, hands behind your head. Be a good girl for us.”
The removal of clothing should have been easier for a girl desiring to work as a topless dancer. But the way the nurse spoke concerned me. She had an authoritative demeanor, pleasant but firm, leaving no question as to who was in charge. And I was to sit with my legs open...?
The large blond woman arose to leave the examination room. The froufrou of her starched white uniform punctuated the heavy thuds made by her drab rubber soled shoes. Her blond hair was pulled straight back in a bun and was mostly covered by her cap. Everything she wore, including her dour look, disguised the fact that this mature, well-built woman was handsome. Was it deliberate? Since becoming a teenager, my feminine side told me to make every effort to look pretty. To attract boys, even those with uncontrollable phalli. To draw attention. To gather compliments like a numismatologist collects coins. And this nurse seemed to make every effort to appear otherwise.
Large, brightly lit, the room was sizable but austere. A table with obligatory stirrups and adjoining white metal cabinets evidenced its use for medical purposes. The steelcase desk with manila folders neatly piled in the front left corner reminded me of the office of my high school guidance counselor.
My age and my vulnerable condition mandated immediate compliance despite my reservations. I was stepping out of my shoes before the nurse shut the door behind her.
I remember laughing at myself. Twice I had danced about, once completely naked, for the club manager, somehow summoning the pluck to let the lecher gaze at this shy farm girl’s shapely body.
‘Do it for the dough,’ I kept telling myself as he sat behind his desk wearing a confident smirk. The motivation of staving pending starvation does wonders for the development of courage, I concluded. For me it was like jumping from a burning building. Somehow, despite the thought of a long fall, the spirit chooses to avoid flame and smoke and instead endure the possibility of broken limb.
And so in the manager’s office, I had jumped. And once again on this peculiar ship with the commanding nurse, I took a leap, humbly tossing all I wore into the flimsy cardboard box.
When finished, I straddled the straight-backed, wooden chair, thrusting my knees awkwardly off the front corners. As I placed my hands behind my head, I felt the cool air of the room wafting about my genitalia. My nipples responded to the temperature and turned to pencil points. The demanded position caused my outer labia to spread obscenely. And worse, as I dutifully held myself open with my spine rigid as a post, I detected my own feminine fragrance. For some reason I was aroused.
The wait seemed interminable. Being stripped naked and required to sit in such an awkward manner added to the discomfort of the pause. Then I glanced up and saw an opaque plastic dome in the middle of the ceiling. Infrequent shopping trips to New York’s department stores told me the dome covered a video surveillance camera, such devices being labeled by law in public areas.
And then my reaction became even more curious. I felt the building moisture between my thighs turn to absolute wetness with rivulets beginning to flow to my inner labia. I tightened my pelvic muscles but knew that it was a matter of time before the viscous fluid flowed down my upper thighs and a small gooey puddle would begin to form in the middle of the chair seat.
With my increasing consternation, my thoughts turned from the video camera and the possibility of being filmed to forestalling the potential of embarrassing myself. A box of tissues sat on a nearby cabinet. I quickly arose, snagged the offered Kleenex and returned to my seat. There, I wiped away much of the evidence of my arousal. With my movement a new source of concern arose. The room filled with the fragrance of my femininity and before I could confront that hurdle and dispose of the extremely damp tissue, the door opened.

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